


Our Woman In Tokyo

by BitShifter



Category: The Avengers (1960s British TV)
Genre: Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-19
Updated: 2006-06-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 05:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitShifter/pseuds/BitShifter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steed goes the distance. Emma rises in the East.</p><p>Who is The Ladja? And what is his plot at the 1964 Summer Olympics in Tokyo?</p><p>The eighth in a series of adventures designed to bridge the year and a half between broadcast episode 3.26, "Lobster Quadrille" (Cathy Gale, March 1964), and episode 4.01, "The Town Of No Return" (Emma Peel, September 1965)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Enter The Ladja

**October 1964**

**Ozero Krugloye Training Facility, Moscow**

Billows of steam filled the concrete shower area and condensed onto the cool tile walls, forming abstract patterns of droplets. A woman was relaxing under the hot water after a hard hour of swimming. She had the lithe body of an athlete, and her short blond hair was plastered to her neck as she rinsed off any traces of chlorine. Her swimsuit hung casually on a hook by the door. 

The biggest race of her life was coming up in less than a week. If she could do well, it would mean more freedom for her—worldwide travel, a better apartment, even more money. A few nighttime practices weren't too much of an investment, considering all that was at stake. She basked under the warm stream of the shower, not wanting to get dressed and go back out into the cold Moscow night. 

Suddenly, she heard a sharp noise echoing through the empty gymnasium. Her hand went instinctively to the faucet handle and shut off the water. Rivulets ran down her back and quietly dripped to the floor as she strained to hear what had caused the disturbance. The voices of several men came to her from the large space surrounding the pool. The sound of their footsteps grew louder as they approached the end of the building that contained the women's locker room. 

Marina barely had time to sprint behind a cinderblock partition before the men came to a stop right outside the shower area. The blocks in the wall were offset to provide ventilation, and the gaps between were just large enough for her to spy on the intruders. She squatted as close to the edge as possible in order to better overhear their conversation. Her gaze wandered over to her swimsuit by the door; there was no way she could retrieve it now without being spotted. Even though no one could see her in her hiding place, she still tucked her hands between her thighs to hide her nakedness. 

A well-dressed man with dark hair and a bowler appeared to be the leader. At first she took him for an Englishman; but she quickly realized he was speaking perfect Russian to the other men, idly conversing about the chances of an early snow this year. 

A sudden stab of panic went through Marina as the man turned and looked in her direction. His eyes were ice-blue and empty, staring directly at the wall she was hiding behind. Marina remained absolutely motionless, praying that the water dripping from her body wouldn't be audible from twenty feet away. 

The man with ice-blue eyes continued his scan of the empty facility, then nodded as if he approved of the meeting place. 

"This seems suitable," he said. "We can talk here." 

A swarthy man with a drooping moustache answered him. "My name is Vasily. I was sent by Gogol." 

"KGB?" 

"Yes," Vasily answered. "These other men work for me. They enforce my will, whatever it should be." 

The man with ice-blue eyes nodded, and a mysterious grin touched the corners of his mouth as he spoke. "You can call me _The Ladja_." 

"The Rook?" Vasily asked. "You are a chess-player, perhaps?" 

"Only if I get to play both sides of the board," The Ladja said with a malevolent smile. Vasily smiled back. 

"Then you are the double agent that I have heard much about. Is your information reliable?" 

The Ladja became serious. "I had access to top level information at the British Ministry for Defence," he answered. 

"And you believe this assassination can succeed?" 

"The United States will have only two CIA agents there," The Ladja responded. "The British Secret Service is not planning to send anyone. It is a golden opportunity. Let me tell you exactly how it will work..." 

Marina shuddered as she listened to the plan. After she had heard it, she knew that in spite of his suave outward appearance and careful manners, The Ladja was a man capable of great evil. Marina slowly started to back away from the wall. She had heard all she needed. If these men caught her here, they would kill her. They were that type of men, killers. 

Even as she realized her life depended on her ability to make a stealthy withdrawal, her heel made contact with a metal bin containing used towels. It tipped over onto the floor with a resounding crash. 

The Ladja's eyes flashed as he turned at the noise. "Who's there?" he shouted gruffly. 

Marina's animal instincts took over. Flight was her only option now. She sprinted out of the shower room, her bare feet slapping against the concrete floor. The men were taken aback for a second at the sight of the slender blonde running directly past them, completely nude. She was only a few feet from the door by the time they reacted to give chase. 

The door in front of Marina opened, and a young guard stepped into her path. Her momentum took her directly into his arms, which he proceeded to wrap around her like bands of steel. The guard smiled with pleasure at the sight of the beautiful naked woman that had fallen into his grasp. 

His delight turned to dismay when she drove her well-muscled thigh deep into his groin. The guard felt a stunning pain shoot up towards the pit of his stomach, and he suddenly lost all interest in trying to detain the woman. Marina easily shrugged free of his grip as she ran frantically into the street outside. 

A chilly drizzle was falling as she sprinted back towards the women's dormitory. She knew that once she reached it, she would gain anonymity among all the other blonde athletes there. She hardly felt the freezing water as it pelted her nude body; terror had taken over. 

Marina took the extra time to run around to the rear of the building, hoping that any pursuit would assume she had used the front door. She didn't pause until she had crept into her bunk in the communal sleeping area. As she lay on her back on the flimsy mattress, she remembered in a panic that her hair was still soaking wet; she would be discovered when the men burst into the building with their search. But no one entered; the young swimmer had made good her escape. A few minutes later, after she managed to brush aside the fear, Marina suddenly realized she had just been handed her ticket to freedom. 

-oOo-

"We've been in contact with an Eastern Bloc athlete," Charles began. "She wants to defect to the West." 

Steed placed his bowler and umbrella in their usual spot on the edge of the Head of Operations' desk. "She?" he asked. 

"A Russian swimmer, Marina Irinova. She has information about a Communist plot. An assassination, apparently." Charles lit up a cigar before continuing his explanation. 

"Like most Russian athletes, she is seldom abroad, and constantly watched whenever she is," he said. "But she'll be out of Russia this month." 

Steed started to show interest. "For what?" 

Charles rolled his eyes. "The Summer Olympic Games in Tokyo, on October 10th. Do you pay any attention to the world around you, Steed?" 

"I've been busier than usual this summer—government traitors, art thieves, kidnappers, black magicians, gun runners—" 

"I've arranged a spot for you on the fencing team," Charles announced. 

"That must have taken some doing." 

"Not really. The coach apparently heard some tale about that incident in Madrid where you fought off a rapier in Florentine-style combat using nothing but a Spanish swordstick and a three-cornered hat. He wants to meet you." 

Steed smiled at the memory. "How is this defection supposed to be accomplished?" he asked. 

"They're guarding Miss Irinova every minute," Charles said. "However, there is one time when they're not allowed to be next to her. That's when she's actually competing in an event." 

"I'm a dab hand at undercover work," Steed grinned. "Still, I don't think I can pass as a woman." 

"That's why you have to recruit one of the female Olympians to help you." 

"Did you have someone in mind?" 

Charles smiled. "Emma Peel is on the Women's Fencing Team." 

Steed was silent for several seconds. 

"Has anyone approached her?" he asked. 

Charles was still smiling. "Of course not. That's what you're for." 

Steed felt a little guilty. He was still keeping the fact of Squadron Leader Peter Peel's Ministry connection from his wife. The Official Secrets Act was on his side, but it didn't make him feel any better about it. 

"Wouldn't it be more effective to use one of our female agents?" Steed asked. "Why get Mrs. Peel involved? Or me, for that matter?" 

"Miss Irinova asked for you specifically," Charles answered. "Apparently you've helped some of her friends defect in the past. And this would be a perfect assignment for you to test out Mrs. Peel." 

Steed had to admit he looked forward to meeting the auburn-haired beauty from the Amazon again. "How will we be able to contact Miss Irinova?" he asked. 

"I've arranged for you to have unlimited access to view and even participate in all events," Charles explained. "But it's vitally important that you don't do anything to draw attention to yourself. We don't want people to start looking into your background and how you came to be at the Olympics." 

"You mean—" Steed began. 

Charles leaned back in his chair. 

"That's right Steed. For heaven's sake, make sure you don't win any medals." 

-oOo-


	2. A Few Pointers

**Chapter 2**

Located in the center of Yoyogi Park and looking considerably like a giant sundial, the Tokyo National Gymnasium was designed by the great Japanese architect Kenzo Tange. The upswept central tower and swirling roof were just as distinctive as the streamlined double-crescent shape that Tange used for the adjoining indoor stadium, the home of the swimming and diving events. Combined, the two structures formed the most modern athletic complex in the world, a fresh construction of steel, glass, and concrete built just for these Olympic Games. 

Inside the gymnasium, a variety of sounds echoed through the open space: the metallic clatter of blades, the beeping of the electronic scoring system, and the short, guttural instructions from coaches in every language. There were twelve different fencing strips, or _pistes_ , laid out side by side across the floor; on one of these, a sure-footed woman was pressing her attack across the opposite en-garde line, forcing her opponent to retreat to the warning area just six feet from the end. With a flurry of thrusts and flicks, she drove the other fencer off the strip, earning both a point from the scoring system and a word of praise from her coach. 

John Steed was standing off to one side where the men's team was assembling for their upcoming practice. His soft gray eyes were fixed on this particular woman, on the dark brown hair flipped in a low curl around the bottom of her fencing mask. He couldn't see her face, but he didn't need to; from the catlike way she moved, he knew it was Emma Peel. 

As if Emma could sense eyes upon her, she turned suddenly and stared at the man near the end of her piste. He was dressed in a cream polo shirt and black slacks. There was something familiar about his wavy dark hair. She took a step closer and recognized him immediately; it was the man who had saved her life in the Amazon. Emma tilted up her mask so she could see better. 

"John Steed?" she asked cautiously. 

"Just Steed," he corrected her with a smile. 

The coincidence made her uneasy. Had the man been following her? 

"Spectators aren't allowed in here," she said politely. 

"Me? I'm no spectator." Steed winked. "Although I admit I was watching _you_ rather closely." 

"Just what are you doing here, Steed?" 

He smiled broadly. "Oh, simply lending a hand, helping out the Men's Team." 

"You don't just 'help out' an Olympic fencing team," Emma chided. "It takes years of training and practice, and you have to qualify through competition. Don't tell me you're on the team illegally." 

"Of course not, Mrs. Peel!" he grinned. "I know a fair bit about fencing. The key is, the pointy end goes _away_ from you." 

She wrinkled her mouth at his flippancy. "Was there some sort of last-minute injury that required you to act as a substitute?" 

"Actually, they called me in so I could give the lads a few pointers," Steed countered jovially. "Sort of an 'expert advisor', as it were." 

She arched her eyebrow at his veiled boast. "Since you know so much, what's your 'expert' opinion of my fencing?" 

"You're not too bad," he said casually. "You're just a bit slow with your riposte in quinte." 

"I beg your pardon," Emma said coolly. "Who are you to criticize my quinte?" 

"You did ask. Just some helpful advice. An opponent might easily exploit it." 

"Then perhaps _you_ would like to exploit it, sir." She tossed him a mask. He caught it handily. 

"Certainly. Anything I can do to help out the Women's Team." He picked up a foil and tapped it against hers. Emma felt a thrill go through her with the contact. She recalled his skill with the quarterstaff when he fought off the gun-runners back in the Amazon. 

" _En-garde,_ " Steed offered debonairly. He raised his blade in salute. Emma nodded graciously, sketching a slight salute with her blade. 

She then lunged at him quickly, determined to test his reflexes. Steed showed no hesitation at all; he countered her move skillfully, then launched on the offensive himself. Within moments he was doggedly attacking her head with blinding speed, like a machine. It was all she could do to keep her foil high in quinte. After a dozen passes, she adjusted to parry and riposte more effectively. 

"Now you're getting it," he said cockily. 

Emma fumed under her mask at his presumptuousness. But she had to admit he _was_ good. And he had been right about her quinte. For the next few minutes, they engaged in some dazzling swordplay that caused the other members of both the men's and women's teams to stop and watch. 

Even as Emma became certain that she had found a weakness in Steed's defense, he deftly tossed his foil from his right hand to his left. She gasped audibly as she fiercely fought back the onslaught coming from an unexpected direction. Only quick reflexes and a little luck kept her from yielding the point to Steed. He was a tricky one, she thought. Perhaps too tricky. She focused her eyes on his left wrist, watching for a telltale sign of an upcoming hand switch. 

Steed's left arm was tiring, and he attempted another quick toss of the foil back into his right hand. Emma was waiting for it, and she flicked her tip into the space between his hands just in time to send Steed's foil tumbling onto the piste. He humbly bent to retrieve his sword. 

"Pointy end away," she reminded him teasingly. 

" _Touché,_ " Steed replied, his voice tinged with respect. 

Emma felt that there was something taboo, almost sexual about fencing with Steed. She seldom practiced against men, and Steed had a particularly aggressive style. His thrusts to penetrate her guard, her parry and riposte to deny his advances, all seemed to be part of subtle and delicate foreplay. Within moments she had forgotten the icy reception she had given him, and was starting to remember the warm kinship she had felt when they had been fighting for their lives last month. Aware that other members of her team were looking on, Emma executed a quick swivel, got under Steed's guard, and scored a point. There was some muted applause from her female teammates. 

Steed bowed his head to her in deference. "They're going to make that move illegal one day," he said. 

She pulled the mask off and her dark hair bounced free around her shoulders. Emma flashed an appreciative smile at him. 

"I'll forgive your impudence this time, since you were helpful." 

"That's mighty generous of you," Steed answered with a glib smile as he removed his mask. "I'd like to have a word with you tonight," he continued. "Maybe at dinner? You are staying in the Olympic Village, aren't you?" 

Emma Peel paused for a moment, considering his offer. She looked directly into his eyes, attempting to detect any sign of subterfuge. He looked as innocent as a newborn baby. 

"Well, you did save my life in the Amazon," she conceded. "I suppose the least I can do is have a meal with you." 

-oOo-

Steed knew all the restaurants in Japan where one could find a good English meal. It wasn't that Emma didn't appreciate Oriental cuisine, but after a week of fish, she craved meat. He had found a place that served authentic shepherd's pie made with lamb, carrots, peas, and crusty mashed potatoes on top. Hardly a gourmet meal, but Emma decided it was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted, under the circumstances. The rich red merlot didn't hurt, either. She found herself getting heady and warm, and Steed always seemed to sense the exact moment when to refill her glass. 

His flawless manners and quiet politeness only added to his charm. Emma knew from the Amazon that he was capable of necessary violence, but this was the first time she had seen his gentle side. It was an intensely attractive combination. She fought back an urge to rub her foot suggestively against his calf under the table, just to shake his unflappable veneer. 

Steed smiled at her, as if he knew what she was thinking, and then broached the subject that he had undoubtedly lured her to dinner for. 

"I need to contact the Russian swimmer, Marina Irinova," he said casually. "Ordinarily, I'd be happy to slip into her room under the cloak of darkness." 

"I'm sure you would," Emma said tersely. 

"Problem is," Steed continued smoothly, "she's guarded night and day by a sort of 'portable Iron Curtain', if you get my meaning." 

"I get your meaning," she said, arching her eyebrow. "You want _me_ to try to contact her." She pretended to feel imposed on, but it actually sounded exciting. Just the thing she needed to take her mind off Peter. 

Steed grinned. "Well, as long as you're volunteering..." 

Emma looked deep into his grey eyes. "Rita Fox told me about you, how you trick people into doing things," she said evenly. 

" _Moi?_ " he asked with an expression of pure innocence. 

"And furthermore, if you're around, there must be trouble. Like gun-runners or spies. Do you work for the government?" 

"Let's just say I help them out, from time to time," he answered cryptically. 

Emma gave him a measured expression. This agreed with what Rita had told her. If he had lied to her, she would have flatly refused to have anything to do with his plan. 

"What makes you think that _I_ might be able to penetrate this 'portable Iron Curtain', as you put it?" she asked. 

Steed smiled broadly. "Miss Irinova is unguarded during competition." 

"That means I would have to race her." 

"Well, if you don't think you're capable, Mrs. Peel..." 

"I didn't say that. How in the world would I be allowed to compete with her?" 

Steed picked up the carafe and added a little more red wine to her glass. "I've arranged for you to be in the same qualifying heat, the 400-meter freestyle. You _can_ swim, can't you Mrs. Peel?" 

"Well, I can certainly outswim _you_ ," she boasted. 

"But four-plus minutes of non-stop swimming will demand quite a bit of stamina," Steed teased. "Do you think you have what it takes to keep going that long?" 

"Effortlessly," Emma smirked. "How will I get the information to you?" 

"Why, Mrs. Peel, I'll be swimming in the men's 400-meter heat immediately following you," he replied, grinning ear to ear. "Say—we can meet up afterwards. You'll be sure to remember your time, won't you, so we can compare? Then we'll see if you really _can_ outswim me." 

-oOo-


	3. The Heat Is On

**Chapter 3**

Emma Peel looked down through the rippling waters to the sky-blue bottom of the pool. Brightly-colored markers strung on ropes floated on either side of her lane. She pulled down a pair of tinted goggles over her eyes to shield out the sunlight sparkling on the liquid surface. On her head was a rubber bathing cap, jauntily emblazoned with the Union Jack. Emma gaily wiggled her bare toes on the edge of the rubber start block. 

She was racing in an Olympic swimming heat! 

She didn't know how he had arranged it. But somehow she knew that when she hung around John Steed, anything could happen; all things were possible. Her eyes scanned the crowd looking for his wavy dark hair. Surely, he must be watching from somewhere nearby. 

In the lane next to her was a well-muscled woman with blond hair cut short enough that she didn't need to wear a swim cap. According to Steed's information, this would be Marina Irinova, the defector who was seeking asylum. 

Emma finally glimpsed Steed standing near the officials' table. At first she didn't recognize him with his shirt off. It was amazing that he could still look dashing even without his clothes, she thought. 

-oOo-

Steed caught sight of Mrs. Peel and gave her a quick wink in return, grinning when he saw her smile back. He took a moment to admire her as she waited for the race to start. Her body was more sensuous and less athletic than any of the other competitors, and her assets were boldly on display in the wet bathing suit. He stared in fascination at the inward dimple caused by her navel, at the fabric stretched taut over the delicate mound between her thighs. The tips of her breasts were perfectly angled and firm; a credit to the women of Great Britain, Steed thought. For a brief moment he tried to imagine her body without clothes, then shook his head to dispel the fantasy—he had work to do. 

Several guards were loitering around the Eastern Bloc swimmers. Steed looked carefully at their shoes and the cut of their suits. These men didn't have the look of standard Soviet security forces; these men had the look of KGB. Perhaps the other side had found out that Miss Irinova was the bearer of top secrets. Then he noticed that KGB men seemed to be spending equal amounts of time around all of the athletes. _They don't know which woman it is_ , he thought. 

-oOo-

The crowd in the stands was now cheering wildly. The beginning of the race was only seconds away. Emma knew she had no real chance of winning, but at least it would be a good workout before her fencing competition. She loosely shook out her arms and legs before freezing into her starting pose. 

At the sound of the gun, she hurdled forward into the water like a shot from a cannon. Her freestyle stroke wasn't as efficient as that of the trained athletes, and soon she had slipped a dozen lengths behind. In spite of a spirited effort near the close of the race, Emma still finished in last, putting an end to any awkward questions that might have occurred if she had advanced to the next heat. 

The swimmers were cooling down after the race in the water by the starting blocks. Emma drifted over to the lane marker and addressed the Soviet athlete next to her. 

"Miss Irinova?" she asked. 

" _Privet_ ," the woman answered. "You have been sent by Steed?" 

"Yes. My name's Emma Peel." 

Marina nodded. "I have vital information about a killing." 

Emma splashed some water on her forearms, pretending to be working out a cramp. "Who's the victim?" 

"My information is for Steed's ears only," Marina said smugly. 

Emma sighed. "Did you have some plan for escaping?" 

Marina hung on to the side of the pool and stretched her shoulders. "There is a narrow service corridor leading from the shower room to a fire exit outside the building. I can use it after the finals of the 400-meter race, tomorrow at sundown. It will be our only chance." 

"Won't your handlers be with you?" 

"My guards do not follow me into the shower. But I must go in naked, or they will be suspicious." 

Emma pictured Steed waiting outside the fire door with a broad grin on his face as he greeted the nude athlete prancing down the hall. She would put a stop to that. 

"You'll have to find a way to smuggle some clothing in," Emma announced. 

"How can I do that?" 

"Many women wear their bathing caps in the shower." 

"So?" 

"You can hide a swimsuit underneath it." 

"It would have to be a very thin one." 

"It would be better than nothing." 

Marina gave her an even expression, as if she was judging her. "You're very clever, Miss Peel." 

"Mrs.," Emma corrected. 

"So you cannot be Steed's lover. That is good." 

Emma started to protest Marina's conclusion, but decided to say nothing. 

"Tomorrow at five," Marina said resolutely. She then hoisted herself out of the pool and sprinted over to the waiting KGB men in order to allay any of their suspicions. 

-oOo-

Emma stood by the officials' table while she waited for Steed's heat to begin. Now that she had completed the task of contacting the Russian athlete, she was eager to relay the information. Marina had already been hustled away by her guards; they were a professional-looking group. Portable Iron Curtain indeed. 

She knew that Steed must have been getting an eyeful of her before the race, so it was only right that she return the favor. Emma unashamedly contemplated Steed's body as he waited on the starting blocks. He was hardly a specimen of physical perfection. The best adjective she could think of to describe Steed's physique was 'well-traveled'. There were traces of more than a dozen scars, many of them from their ordeal in the Amazon; but there was one on his left calf that looked like teeth marks. _That one must have hurt._ His muscles were not the toned sinews of an athlete, but underneath the softness of easy living she detected a hard core of determination. As her eyes dipped below his waist, she noticed that his wet trunks outlined equipment more impressive than any she had encountered in her limited experience. She drove the thought from her mind. 

Steed didn't seem to notice her attentions; he was preparing for the race. It occurred to her how utterly convincing he was in the role of an Olympic athlete. He behaved exactly like all the other swimmers; did the same trivial exercises, had the same look of concentration and lifelong desire for victory. Emma made a mental note to be careful not to be taken in by any of Steed's pretenses. He was an expert deceiver when he needed to be. 

The sound of the starter's pistol disturbed her reverie. Steed knifed into the water with barely a splash. His stroke was strong and natural, and he stayed close to the lead for the first half of the race. The crowd around her was shouting boisterously in support of a Japanese athlete that was in the same heat. Emma found herself swept up in the excitement in spite of herself. 

"Go, Steed! Go!" she shouted from the sideline. She might as well play her part of a fellow British swimmer. 

Emma watched in amazement as on the final lap, Steed starting passing the other swimmers. _My God,_ she thought, _he's going to win!_ But his sprint faded at the end, causing him to finish in fourth. It was still an incredible time, faster than hers, and just a few hundredths from qualifying. 

Steed shook the hand of the winner in the lane next to him. The he exited the pool and walked over to where she was standing. His chest and trunks were still wet, and he swung his arms vigorously, as if he was just starting to get loosened up. He grinned as he approached her. 

"Ah, nothing like a brisk morning swim to get the circulation going. How was your swim, Mrs. Peel?" 

Emma wrinkled her mouth. "Don't pretend you weren't watching, Steed. You know how I swam. I didn't want to overexert myself. I still have to fence tomorrow." 

"Of course!" Steed answered jovially. "Still, I do believe my time was better than yours." 

"You're a man. It's supposed to be better," she said begrudgingly. She couldn't believe that he had beaten her time. He seemed to be about the same age as Peter, a decade older than her. In spite of her claims, she hadn't been holding back at all. 

Their conversation was interrupted as two men in gray suits wandered over to the officials' table. Emma recognized them as the guards for the Soviet athletes. She tried to look innocent, thinking it would be best not to acknowledge Steed's presence while the enemy was milling about. 

Steed took the opportunity to appraise the sleek figure standing next to him in the black one-piece racer swimsuit. As he was admiring the pleasing way that the wet nylon clung to her body, her nipples became urgently erect, reminding him of his hallucination in the Amazon. It wasn't that cold; Mrs. Peel must have felt his stare. Steed didn't avert his gaze. She kept her head facing forward, pretending to be watching the next men's quarterfinal heat. 

Emma could sense Steed's eyes upon her. The thought thrilled her, and she felt guilty for it. Since marrying Peter two years ago, she had never gone a month without physical satisfaction. What awaited her now? Endless months of celibacy while she mourned a dead husband? Even as she thought of Steed, her breasts advertised her need; and she knew he would surely notice it through the wet bathing suit. With a frown, she folded her arms across her chest in an attempt to hide her arousal from Steed's eyes. 

She became suddenly aware that Steed knew everything she was thinking. He was wearing that same cocky grin that he had been sporting the first time she met him in the Amazon. 

Steed attempted to slide his arm around her waist. Emma playfully danced away from his grip. 

"Careful, Steed. I know judo." 

"Just thought you needed a warm embrace, Mrs. Peel. You seemed cold for a moment." 

Emma hugged her arms tighter across her bosom. "I need no warming from you, sir," she said with mock sternness. 

The KGB men seemed to lose interest in the area. Emma overheard one of them speak the name "Vasily" before they both wandered back to rejoin the Russian athletes. She couldn't help but wonder if Steed's attempt at physical contact had been a diversion staged for the benefit of the enemy agents. She turned and looked directly into Steed's eyes, trying to read his thoughts the way he seemed to read hers. But he was inscrutable as ever as he resumed their conversation. 

"Did you speak with Miss Irinova?" he asked. 

Emma nodded. "She says she has vital information about an assassination plot. She wouldn't get into any details, but she said you have only one chance to accomplish the defection, and that's immediately after the finals of the 400-meter freestyle, at sundown tomorrow. We're to pick her up at a fire door outside the shower room. She'll give you the details about the plot once she's safe." 

"Straight from the shower? That should be interesting." 

"I've arranged for her to acquire clothing," Emma said with a smirk. 

"You're most efficient. I'm glad I have you looking out for me." 

"You're welcome," she answered with an innocent smile. 

Steed extended his hand to her. She shook it, then realized that he had just tricked her into uncrossing her arms to expose her chest. Emma quickly moved again to cover her bosom. 

He smiled debonairly. "You've done the Western world a great service, Mrs. Peel." 

"Helping the defection of a Russian athlete?" 

"No," Steed grinned. "Appearing on worldwide television in that swimsuit." He started walking away. 

" _I was on television?_ " she called after him. 

-oOo-


	4. A Slight Defection

**Chapter 4**

The National Gymnasium was filled with cheering spectators ready to watch the foil and epee events. Steed was seated on the bench along with the rest of the men's team when he saw Emma Peel step onto the piste. 

During the previous day's events, Steed had marveled at how sexy she looked; but today she looked professional and dangerous. Dressed head-to-toe in virgin white breeches, jacket, and gloves, Mrs. Peel was a deadly angel come to earth to wreak vengeance on the wicked. She give a little toss of her head to send her rich auburn locks swirling to either side as she donned her wire-mesh mask. A lightweight blade in her right hand, she stepped up to the en-garde line across from her first opponent in the women's individual foil. 

It was hardly any contest at all for the first few bouts. Emma dispatched her hapless victims with speed and poise. As she progressed through the ranks, she eventually found herself facing the crème de la crème of the women's fencing world. 

The heightened competition didn't seem to bother her. Even when she made a mistake, Emma continued to push forward without hesitation, unflappable. She finally met her undoing at the hands of a lightning-fast Italian named Antonella. When the dust had cleared, Emma Peel finished in a respectable sixth, with the Hungarian, German, and the Italian taking the top three spots. 

Steed was called to the piste immediately afterward for men's individual foil. After quickly advancing through the first tiers of competition, he remembered the Head of Operations' warning, and held back when he reached the upper echelons. He doubted that he was good enough to medal, but there was no point in taking chances. 

After the completion of the fencing events, Mrs. Peel ran over to meet him, exuberant with her performance. Steed felt a warm glow of pride at her accomplishment. Would it endanger his working relationship so very much if he slipped his arms around Mrs. Peel's waist and nibbled at her earlobes, just a little? Probably so. 

"Did you see?" she said excitedly. 

"You were spectacular, Mrs. Peel. I certainly wouldn't want to meet you in a dark alley some night, armed only with a sword." 

"Keep it up, and you may," she countered, thinking that she detected a note of sarcasm in his voice. 

"Sixth in the world is an impressive feat. Now you can stake your claim as the best swordsman in Great Britain." Steed's serious tone indicated his compliment was genuine. 

"Swords _woman_ ," Emma corrected him wryly. "Considering that you came in nineteenth, I'll take that as high praise." She didn't mean to gloat, but she had to make up for the teasing he gave her after yesterday's swim. "Aren't you going to do epee, Steed?" 

"Too heavy. I don't want to wear out my arm. I might need it to lift mugs of that rice beer they serve here." 

"Have you made the preparations to help Miss Irinova?" 

"I have a suitable car. I was hoping you might tag along." 

The surprise on Emma's face was evident. She was actually flustered as she spoke. 

"Me?" she asked. "Help with a defection from an enemy government? Do you think I should?" 

"You've been a great help so far. No reason to stop while you're on a roll. In for a penny, in for a pound, I always say." 

Emma nodded her head politely. "In that case, I accept." 

-oOo-

The car was a luxurious black 1959 Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud saloon. It was certainly no rental; Steed must have borrowed it from a friend. He parked illegally next to the curb by the checkerboard plaza outside the swimming arena, then ran around to hold the door open for Emma. She stepped out somewhat unsteadily. Steed smiled. 

"Nervous, Mrs. Peel?" 

"I don't think I've ever done this sort of thing before. Certainly, not while sober," she joked. 

"Indeed," Steed said smoothly. "I could use a good stiff drink about now, myself." 

Emma smiled and reached in her hip pocket and pulled out a flask. "Liquid courage. For medicinal purposes only, Mr. Steed." 

"Just Steed," he corrected. "Mrs. Peel, you're an angel." 

She drank first, sipping delicately from the flask, and a rosy color tinged her checks. She shook her head as tears nearly came to her eyes. 

"An angel bearing potent potables," she said haltingly, passing the flask to him. "Careful Steed; it's strong." 

"Then I'll just have to be stronger." He smiled broadly as he took a generous swallow. Emma watched smugly, expecting him to choke on the fiery high-proof mixture. Instead, he thumped his chest like a Russian weightlifter. 

"Ah, that reinforced the old constitution," he grinned. "Thank you, Mrs. Peel." 

Emma started nosing around the outside wall of the stadium. A few seconds after vanishing around a corner, she called out to Steed. He followed the sound of her voice. She was standing next to a metal-clad door boldly emblazoned with the sign "FIRE EXIT". Just to the left, two red concrete posts guarded a large-diameter pipe with a valve emerging from underground. On the wall above, a substantial length of hose was folded accordion-style in a rack. 

"It's probably locked to the outside," she observed. "We'll just have to wait." 

Steed looked thoughtful. "I'd like to know what's going to emerge before it's directly upon us. We need to get that door open." He found himself instinctively looking at Mrs. Peel's hair, expecting to see a pair of cloisonné hair clips. A pang of loss briefly passed through him. 

Emma arched her eyebrow. "I have an American Express card," she offered. "It's plastic." She fished around in her pocket and produced a small rectangle. Steed took it from her and careful wedged it into the space near the handle. There was a dull click as he easily pulled the door open. Emma pressed shoulder to shoulder with him as they peered inside. 

"Pipes, wiring," Steed commented. "No Marina." 

Emma checked her watch. "It's just after five. Shouldn't be too much longer." 

Even as she finished speaking, a scuffling noise echoed through the empty space inside the door. The sound of bare feet slapping on cement was followed by several Russian words barked urgently from farther down the corridor. If they were orders to stop, Marina was ignoring them; she came running down the hall at full tilt. She wore a sky blue racing suit so thin it looked like it was painted on. 

Two black-haired men dressed in plain gray suits were only a few steps behind her. One of them was starting to reach inside his jacket. 

"Trouble!" Emma warned Steed. Thinking quickly, she grabbed one end of the fire hose and dragged it to the door opening. 

"Fire crews at the ready!" she sang out. 

Steed immediately understood her plan and rushed over to the valve, giving the handle a quarter turn to make sure it wasn't stuck. "Say when," he said. 

Emma waited until Marina reached the doorway. "When!" she called out. 

Steed whirled open the valve, causing the hose to inflate from the pressure. A solid stream of water hit the two KGB men at full force. The gun that one of them had produced went flying out of his grasp and clattered against the wall. Unable to make progress against the torrent, both men started to slip backwards until they went down in a heap. Emma let the ferocious stream of water play on the two sodden figures for a moment longer, just to make sure they were thoroughly subdued. 

"Switch off," she ordered. He spun the handle back. 

Steed walked over to the open fire door and peeked inside to see the two spluttering guards. He turned towards Emma with a grin. 

"Mrs. Peel, you're a natural. Extinguishing the flames of tyranny. Are you sure you've never done this before?" 

She smiled at him, surprised at how much his praise warmed her. "Let's get Miss Irinova out of here before more baddies arrive," she said. 

-oOo-

The trio had returned to Emma's room in the Olympic Village. Marina was clinging tightly to Steed, pressing her firm breasts into his chest. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. Emma couldn't help but feel a stab of jealousy. Plus, the swimsuit that the Russian had chosen was positively _obscene_. Steed disengaged himself from Marina, gesturing for her to sit down on the bed. 

" _Zdravstvujte,_ Miss Irinova," he said suavely. 

" _Privet_ , Steed. I have heard much about you. You have helped many of my friends come to the West. I don't know how I can ever thank you." 

" _Bol'shoe spasibo,_ " Steed answered with a broad smile. 

Emma pressed her own body close to Steed's as she leaned over his shoulder. 

"You know Russian?" she asked wryly. 

Steed looked back at her and smiled. "Only the important bits, like 'Which way to the caviar?'" 

He walked over to the nightstand for a glass of water and handed it to Marina. She drank it slowly, looking deep into Steed's twinkling gray eyes. 

"Thank you, _tovarisch_." She reached forward and boldly slipped her hand between his knees, giving his inner thigh a tender squeeze. 

"Affectionate, isn't she?" Emma asked cattily, still leaning in to Steed's ear. 

Steed grinned. Was that jealousy he detected? He took one of Marina's hands in his. 

"Now, Marina, how do you know about this plot?" 

"I overheard some men talking in Moscow." 

"And they let you live?" 

"I managed to escape. A guard tried to stop me," she explained with a mischievous smile, "but I kicked him in his _yaitsa_." 

"Eggs?" Steed translated, arching an eyebrow. 

Emma suppressed a laugh. "I think I know what she means." 

"What did you hear?" Steed continued. 

"An important double agent has just arrived from England," Marina explained. "They call him _The Ladja_ —'The Rook'. He knows much about your Ministry. He is the man who has coordinated the assassination." 

"Do you know his real name?" 

"No. But I can describe him. He has dark hair and ice-blue eyes." 

"Hardly an unusual characteristic," Emma said disparagingly. "Even Peter had ice-blue eyes." She lapsed into melancholy for a moment. 

"Did I say something wrong?" Marina asked. 

"Her husband died recently," Steed explained quietly. "What about the assassination?" 

"The Ladja has arranged for a killer to be in Tokyo. The assassin will shoot Emperor Hirohito at the Olympic Stadium on October 21st." 

Both Steed and Emma were quiet for a moment as they considered this. 

"I'm sure everyone entering the stadium will be thoroughly searched," Steed offered. 

"This man won't," Marina countered. 

"And why is that?" 

"Because he will be entering the stadium as a marathon runner." 

Steed and Emma looked at each other. Marina continued to explain. 

"At the last water stop, he will be given a gun. When the athlete runs past the review stand in the stadium, he will assassinate Emperor Hirohito. With Hirohito gone, China and Russia have a plot to work together to make sure the Communist Party holds sway in Japan." 

"I thought Hirohito was only going to be present for the Opening Ceremonies," Emma said. "Why will he be there watching the marathon? 

"His country has great hopes for Tsuburaya Kokichi, Japan's greatest runner. He will be there to cheer on their national hero." 

"And that's when The Ladja's man will strike," Steed prompted. 

Marina nodded. "But I know you can stop him, Steed. You are much smarter than The Ladja. And better-looking," she added slyly. 

-oOo-


	5. The Ultimate Woman

**Chapter 5**

Steed's restaurant had come through again. Emma was sitting opposite him at their usual table, sharing a colossal chef's salad that had been placed between them. The bowl was filled with a dozen varieties of greens along with ham, turkey, and cheese. She had to admit, Steed knew where to get the best Western food in the Far East. 

Steed was finding it hard not to be affected by the appearance of Mrs. Peel. She was wearing a lightweight summer dress; it was the first time he had seen her in such attire, and he was impressed at how utterly feminine she looked. As impossible as it seemed, she looked even sexier in a dress than she did in a wet bathing suit. 

"Miss Irinova's on her way to London right now," he commented. 

Emma thought for a second. "Do you think the assassins will alter their plan after her escape, just in case?" 

"There's only one way to be sure," Steed answered. "I'm going to run the marathon myself, try to figure out who the killer is, and stop him before he gets a shot off." 

Emma's eyes widened at hearing his plan. She speared a cube of cheese with her fork and waved it at him for emphasis. 

"You're turning out to be quite the athlete, Steed. Swimming, fencing, and now running." 

"It pays to keep in shape. Hence, the salad before the big race." 

"Methinks you care more for the grape than your shape," she rhymed, sipping her wine. She moved her head closer to his across the bowl. "Do you realize by the close of this Olympics you'll have completed three-fifths of a Modern Pentathlon? How are you at pistol shooting and equestrian show-jumping?" 

He grinned broadly. "My name _is_ 'Steed'. Born on the back of a horse, they tell me." 

"Ah, but facing which end?" she teased. "And how about pistol shooting? Are you as good with a gun as you are with a rifle?" 

"I don't often have a gun in my hand," he said casually. "But when one finds its way there, I know what to do with it. When it comes to weapons, I prefer to improvise." 

Emma smiled. "They don't have an Olympic event for quarterstaff." 

"Too bad. I swing a big stick." 

"So I've seen," she said slyly. The wine was starting to affect her again. Her foot was itching to rub against Steed's calf, just like before. Emma felt a warm flush between her thighs; it had been so long. Perhaps Steed sensed her weakness; he leaned forward and refilled her glass. 

"I like your dress," he said charmingly. 

"Thank you," she smiled. 

"I was hoping you might help me with my plan," he continued casually. 

She arched an eyebrow. "In what way?" 

"I'd like you to be waiting at the final water stop," Steed said smoothly. "Keep a close eye on all of the teams. See if you can spot which one has the gun." 

"And here I was, thinking you just wanted me to minister to your hydration needs." 

He smiled. "That too." 

She looked deep into his eyes. "In for a penny, in for a pound, I always say." 

Emma realized that during the past week, she'd hardly dwelt on Peter's death at all. This business with Steed was exactly the sort of thing she needed right now. If only she could fight the strong attraction that she was starting to feel for him. There was certainly no denying the jealousy that Marina had caused in her. 

As if to assert her claim on Steed, she made no move to resist when he slipped his arm around her waist while walking her back to her cottage in the Olympic Village. 

-oOo-

The next day, Emma was actually fussing over Steed at the start of the marathon. She carefully pinned a number to the front and back of his top. 

"Hold still, will you?" she scolded. Steed just smiled in return. The feel of her hands in contact with his body was enough to get his blood surging from head to toe. 

"You look a bit on edge this morning, Mrs. Peel," he said cautiously. Emma said nothing in return; she still felt a little groggy from the wine last night, while Steed looked spry and ready-to-go. She didn't understand how he could drink the same amount as her and still have no after-effects. All the years of drinking must have made him immune, she thought. 

Emma tugged his shirt into place, letting her hands rest on his hips for a moment. His body was more muscular than she had imagined. Maybe he really could pull this off. 

"Pace yourself, Steed," she said with concern. "They're predicting record temperatures today." 

"Can't afford to dally," he answered. "I have to remain in the front pack. If I fall behind, I'll never be able to catch up to prevent the assassination. Do you have a way to get to the final water stop?" 

She nodded. "I'm going in the truck with the rest of the British coaching team. You know, we have great hopes for all our runners." 

Steed looked at her, deadly serious. 

"I'm depending on you, Mrs. Peel," he said. "At the final water stop, you _must_ spot the gun, and see who receives it. Then I'll make sure it never finds its way into the Olympic Stadium." 

She tried to match his seriousness. "You can count on me." 

-oOo-

The start of the marathon was total chaos. Steed began running in an all-out sprint. It was a pace that would keep him in the lead pack, but one that he could only maintain for a mile or so. After a few minutes, the stream of runners at the front thinned out into a sparse, single-file line. 

Steed slowed down a bit to let a group of runners go by. The only other person in sight was the young Korean athlete, Lee Sang Hoon. Steed slowed even more, bending to grab at his calf. 

"Cramp, old man," Steed explained. "Should've eaten more bananas." 

The young runner gave him a curious look as he sprinted by and vanished around the bend. 

Now alone, Steed came to the turn on the course that he had scoped out the night before. With no one around to see, he ducked behind some bushes and trotted onto a side street. 

The Rolls Silver Cloud was waiting just where he'd parked it. Inside the trunk he had stored his standard wardrobe. He pulled a dress shirt and pants on over his running outfit, donned his bowler and umbrella, and drove off for the Olympic Stadium. 

-oOo-

There were very few places in Japan where one could get get good English tea. Steed was fortunate to have found this one directly in sight of the final water stop of the marathon. 

As he watched out the window, he saw the captivating figure of Emma Peel as she worked undercover. She had pulled her auburn hair back into a short, stark ponytail; an attempt to hide her beauty and memorableness, as if that were possible. Mrs. Peel had already developed an easy camaraderie with the coaches from Great Britain and several other countries; her winning smile and delicate wit made her instantly likable. 

For a while, Steed had entertained an idea that Peter Peel might have conspired with the Ministry to fake his own death. The disappearance in the jungle, the convenient appearance of the all-too-obvious gold watch. That thought now seemed ridiculous. No living, breathing man could walk away from Emma Peel. There could be no undercover operation so important that a man would leave his beautiful young wife, burdening her with the pain and anguish of his death, just to help achieve some geopolitical goal. 

Steed stopped to consider Mrs. Emma Peel for a moment. Her performance in the Amazon had been admirable; her performance in Tokyo, even better. She had the same fighting skills and love of danger as Cathy; more, in fact, if that were possible. She had the same intelligence, spirit, and tenacity as Rita. She had everything a real man could want in a woman. 

A few weeks earlier, the Head of Operations had referred to Emma Peel as the ultimate weapon. He wasn't too far off the mark, Steed thought. 

Emma Peel was the ultimate _woman_. 

-oOo-

Emma paced nonchalantly up and down the water stop like a restless cat. She knew that Steed was relying on her to spot the gun handoff, but she had no idea what she should be looking for. It wasn't as if one of the coaches was wearing it in a holster around his waist. Emma carefully eyed the trainers who were holding cups of water. None of them seemed to be lugging about any ammo belts. 

It must be one of the Eastern Bloc countries. But which one? East Germany? Red China? The Soviets? She methodically canvassed each coaching team in turn, watching for anything suspicious. Then she saw it. 

A small plastic cooler was being held by one of the Soviet trainers, much the same as the coolers held by all the other trainers. But there was one important difference. The outside of his cooler was completely dry. All of the others were dripping with condensate in the near triple-digit heat and humidity. What runner wouldn't enjoy a cold drink on such a hot day? What could be in a cooler that required no refrigeration? 

Emma was edging closer to the trainer when a large Russian stepped in front of her, barring her way. 

" _Nazad!_ " he hissed menacingly. 

She moved slowly into a fighting stance, mentally calculating the distance from her foot to the many vulnerable points on his body. He was a big man; but he could be brought down like any other man, if she struck quickly and decisively at the right targets before he could muster a defense. 

Before Emma could unleash her attack, she felt a stunning blow hammer into the back of her neck. Her vision dimmed as she weakened and sank to her knees. The last thing she saw was an evil grin on the face of the Russian giant. 

-oOo-


	6. The Last Mile

**Chapter 6**

The afternoon sun was starting to slant beneath the awnings of the quaint teahouse as Steed checked his watch. It was time to leave. He delicately dabbed his lips with a napkin and rose from the table, turning his back to the window just as the commotion began at the water stop outside. At the cash register in the rear, a shy Oriental waitress bowed ceremoniously to him as he pulled out a few high-value yen notes to pay his tab. Steed smiled and gestured to the refrigerator case next to her. 

"A bottle of Perrier, please." 

-oOo-

Emma sensed light and motion as she regained consciousness. One of the British coaches was hovering over her. 

"Get back, you lot!" he shouted at the crowd that had gathered around. "She's fainted from the heat." 

"Soviets..." she mumbled weakly. "Steed. Tell Steed." 

"Poor lady," the British coach frowned. "She's delirious. Must be heatstroke." He hoisted her in his arms and carried her over to the medical tent. A waiting doctor motioned for the coach to lay Emma on a cot in the shade before turning to the male nurse next to him. 

"Get some water and a couple of salt tablets," he ordered sternly. 

Emma tried to fight the dizziness that engulfed her. The back of her neck still throbbed from the sharp blow that had knocked her out. She hadn't even gotten a look at her assailant. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the large Russian standing by the road and leering back at her with a grin of satisfaction. If only she had been able to unleash her kicks, he would be the one recovering in the medical tent instead of her; she would have made certain of that. There was no sign of the accomplice that must have ambushed her. As she watched, the large Russian moved to one side, giving her a clear view of the trainer reaching into the not-cold cooler. 

-oOo-

A minute later, Steed was parking the Rolls near some bushes just a quarter-mile up the road. It was a blind turn here, and with careful timing, he could rejoin the race just as he had left it. Of course, he would be instantly disqualified once the race officials reported that he hadn't passed any of the water stops in between. But by that time, his job would be done. He stripped off his coat and pants so that he was once again clad in his shorts and top. Then he swapped his dress loafers for his battered running shoes. 

The heat and humidity had climbed during the day to an oppressive level. Steed took a long swig of the cold Perrier. Then he raised the bottle over his head, inverted it, and let the water run down over his head and shoulders, soaking him. He rubbed some of the water into his face, then dabbed a bit behind each ear with a contented sigh. Mineral goodness straight from the Vergèze, he thought. Then he crouched behind the bushes to wait for the runners to go by. 

After nine closely-grouped runners went past, Steed saw his opportunity. The young Korean athlete from earlier in the race, Lee Sang Hoon, was sprinting by with no followers. Steed trotted out onto the road only twenty feet behind him and accelerated to a full run. He feigned heavy panting as he blew by the young runner. 

"Finally managed to pass you back, old man," Steed called out jovially. 

-oOo-

Emma held out little hope now. Both she and Steed had failed. As she was struggling to recover in the medical tent, she had seen the Soviet trainer pull something out of the cooler and slip it to his country's runner, Arkov. It must have been the gun. Not that it mattered. Eight runners had gone by within the past minute, and Steed was nowhere in sight. 

The Ladja had beaten them. She tried to imagine the political upheaval in Japan tomorrow morning. Many people would suffer. But what hurt her the most was the feeling that she had let Steed down. Why did it matter to her so much? How had she become so close to this man in such a short time? 

While she pondered this, a hundred yards away, through the waves of shimmering heat, she saw a runner with wavy dark hair running briskly toward the water stop. At first she thought it must be a mirage. Then she felt a surge of joy as she realized all was not lost. 

Emma sprang from the cot that she had been deposited on. The male nurse ran after her. 

"Here, Miss! You shouldn't be up and about." He lassoed her about the waist with a beefy arm. She struggled to free herself, finally resorting to an elbow that struck just south of his kidney. He released her with a grunt. Emma ran at full clip out to the roadside just in time to intercept the lone runner. 

Steed looked remarkably fresh, considering the exertion and toll the race must have taken on him. His entire body was soaking wet, bathed in sweat from the blazing sun, no doubt. Emma pushed through the trainers to shout directly into Steed's ear as he passed. 

"It's the Soviet athlete—Arkov!" she yelled. "Do you hear that, Steed? He's number forty-three." 

Steed vaguely nodded back, but she wasn't sure that he was able to comprehend what she was saying. Poor man. He must be at the point of exhaustion, she thought. 

-oOo-

As Steed pulled away from the water stop, a wry grin crept across his face. Mrs. Peel was proving to be most competent. He accelerated past the runner in ninth position and spotted the number forty-three on a jersey just two runners ahead. The assassin wore a heavy shirt, completely incongruous with the near hundred-degree-Fahrenheit weather. The gun must be underneath. 

Steed pulled up closer. The crowd lining the streets cheered wildly to see such a burst of energy from a runner so near to the finish line, not knowing that he had skipped twenty-four of the miles in the middle. 

-oOo-

Emma had jumped onto the chase truck with the other British coaches. They were now speeding ahead of the runners towards the massive Olympic Stadium. A portable shortwave receiver in the cargo area was picking up a live English-language broadcast. 

"And it's a great showing for Great Britain," the announcer quipped. "At the last stop, it was Benjamin Basil Heatley in second, Brian Leonard Kilby in fourth, and John Wickham Steed in ninth." 

The British coach who had revived her was seated just opposite. 

"Feeling better now, Miss?" he asked. "That's some cruel heat out there today. They'll be lucky if they don't keel over." 

Emma's thoughts went to Steed. _What a man._ Running twenty-six miles in the sweltering heat in the hope of stopping an assassination. 

The coach continued talking. "You're with that Steed fellow, aren't you?" 

She smiled. "Yes." 

"His living up to his name. Quite a late charger." 

_As long as he can run fast enough to catch Arkov,_ she thought grimly. 

The truck pulled to a stop at the race officials' entrance to the arena. The coaches were escorted to a reserved bench right next to a railing that bordered the clay track. Emma joined them in this exclusive front-row seat. 

A loud roar echoed through the stadium as the first runner entered, an Ethiopian. He was sprinting effortlessly, circling the track and crossing the line just as another pair of runners entered through the archway at the far end. 

For a moment, Emma lost all ability to hear as every voice in the stadium rose in cheer. The Japanese national hero Kokichi was locked in a duel with the Englishman Heatley. The deafening sound waves seemed to become almost visible as the runners approached the finish line. Emperor Hirohito rose to his feet in a rare display of emotion. 

With a final sprint, Heatley took the silver, with Japan having to settle for the bronze. But the fans in the stadium were overjoyed with any medal, and tumult reigned everywhere in the stands. 

At the far end of the stadium, Kilby had entered in fourth, followed closely by a Hungarian and an American. A new runner was now entering the stadium every twenty or thirty seconds. Emma's eyes widened as she saw the next athlete to enter. It was Arkov. 

Just behind him, flagging a bit, but still looking remarkably sharp after twenty-six miles, was John Steed. Emma ran down to the railing, completely forgetting herself in the excitement of the moment. 

"Run, Steed! Run!" she called out excitedly, jumping up and down. A Japanese guard held her back from stepping out on to the track. Emma turned her head sideways and saw that Emperor Hirohito was still standing, an inviting target for the Soviet assassin. 

-oOo-

Steed poured on every ounce of speed he could muster as he closed on Arkov. The man slid his right arm beneath his shirt, probably pulling the gun from a concealed holster, Steed thought. A quick glance from side to side revealed that no security guards would be close enough to interfere. The assassin was going to get a clean shot at the supreme ruler of Japan if Steed couldn't stop him. 

Their journey around the track had now brought the pair of runners only a few yards away from the reviewing stand. Arkov slowed imperceptibly in preparation for his shot. This was the break that Steed had been waiting for. With a final burst of energy, he leaped at the assassin just as the gun became visible. Arkov's finger jerked on the trigger, but Steed's arm had deflected the gun well wide; the shot went harmlessly into the turf. Steed followed through to complete the tackle, landing heavily on Arkov's back. 

At the sound of the gunshot, security guards poured onto the field, including the one just in front of Emma. She followed him as they rushed toward the reviewing stand to surround the Emperor. Emma sprinted over to where two guards were handcuffing Arkov. Steed was sprawled on the infield grass next to the clay track, while other runners were still entering the stadium to complete the marathon. He was panting like a racehorse, the same way she had been panting when he had saved her life with his rifle shot in the Amazon. 

Emma knelt by his side and supported his head in her hands. Steed looked back at her with his guileless gray eyes. She had to fight back the urge to kiss him long and wickedly, in front of a stadium full of thousands of people, as reward for his efforts. 

"You're clearly in your mid-thirties, Steed," she began softly. "What on earth made you think you could run a marathon and tackle an assassin after twenty-six miles?" 

"I did stop him, didn't I?" he asked, feigning confusion. 

"Yes, you did." She patted his chest gently. The enormity of his actions suddenly struck home to her. He might have just changed the entire history of the world with that tackle. She added tenderly, "How are you feeling?" 

"Things got a bit dim there at the end." Steed looked at her with a serious expression. "Then I thought of your smiling face waiting for me at the finish line, and I found that little extra something to keep on going." He grinned broadly. 

"You mean..." 

"That's right, Mrs. Peel. The hip flask you keep tucked in your pocket." 

She rolled her eyes as she reached in and pulled it out. Steed took a tiny sip, and she could see color come back to his cheeks. 

"Ah, that's better," Steed smiled. 

-oOo-

"I thought MI6 wasn't going to send anybody," Vasily said, turning to address the man next to him in the stands. "Wasn't that one of the British runners that tackled Arkov?" 

The Ladja gave no indication that he had heard the remarks of his comrade. His attention remained focused on the field, on the woman who was ministering to the man who had foiled the whole scheme. 

"I've checked the number on the British runner," Vasily continued. "It's listed as a 'John Wickham Steed'. Perhaps he works for the British Secret Service?" 

The Ladja still didn't answer. He stared at the scene in the middle of the stadium, expressionless. His ice-blue eyes showed a flicker of emotion before he finally spoke. 

"I cannot be seen here." 

He turned and walked quickly from the stadium. 

-oOo-

That night, back in his hotel room, Steed was on the phone with Charles. 

"Good work, Steed," the Head of Operations gushed. "I've just heard that Arkov's confessed to the Japanese police about his plan to assassinate Hirohito. Of course, he's claiming he acted on his own." 

"That's mighty loyal of him," Steed mused. "Any chance we might get a crack at him with our wringer?" 

"Afraid not. This is within Japanese jurisdiction. How's our woman in Tokyo doing? Do you think she's the type of partner you might be able to work with?" 

"She's perfect." Steed didn't feel the need to elaborate; the word spoke for itself. "Any word on Peter Peel?" 

"There won't be any news forthcoming, I can assure you," Charles said flatly. "Peter Peel is dead. You need have no guilt about working with his wife." 

"Yes, of course," Steed replied absently. 

"When you get back, there's something very important we want you to look into," Charles continued. "You'll probably need Mrs. Peel's help. Perhaps you should start laying the groundwork for your future partnership." 

"Meaning?" 

"Wine her and dine her." Charles was grinning at the other end of the phone. "The Ministry will pick up the tab." 

-oOo-

The Olympic Village was half-empty now that the closing ceremonies had concluded. Steed entered his favorite eatery, the one he had frequented with Mrs. Peel. To his surprise, she was seated at their regular table. She was delicately sipping a pale yellow liquid from a porcelain cup without a handle. When she looked up and saw him walking over, her face lit up. 

"Steed!" she greeted him warmly. "You're still here." 

"Mrs. Peel!" Steed arched an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't drink sake." 

She smiled back at him. "When in The Orient..." 

Steed grinned. "Rice beer has quite a kick, but I look forward to getting back to some good old English lager." He ordered warm sake and sat down next to her. When his drink arrived, he sipped it quietly, waiting for Mrs. Peel to start the conversation. 

Emma moved closer to him and looked deep into his gray eyes. 

"Do you do this a lot, Steed?" she asked. 

"What's that, Mrs. Peel?" 

"This. Compete in the Olympics, aid Communist defectors, foil assassins." 

"Only on holiday," he answered glibly. 

"Weren't you on holiday in Brazil when you met me?" 

"I take a lot of holidays." 

"When and where do you actually work?" 

"I try to avoid that," Steed said seriously, and then gave her a wink. "Gets in the way of the holidays, you know." 

Emma could no longer contain herself. She burst out with a light, lilting laugh. 

"Let me know when you take another one of these holidays," she said in good humor, sipping her drink. 

"So you can be somewhere else?" 

"No, quite to the contrary," she replied. "I think I should be around to make sure you don't do yourself harm." 

"Are you sure you'll be able to keep up with me, Mrs. Peel?" 

She raised her cup of sake to him. 

"Anything you can do, I can do better," she boasted. "Or, at least, as well," she amended. 

Steed raised his cup to her and smiled charmingly. 

"We'll just see about that." 

-oOo-


End file.
